


weary passion

by orphan_account



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Canon Era, Fluff, M/M, like one line of angst, the rest is just cute fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-10
Updated: 2018-03-10
Packaged: 2019-03-29 13:37:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13928211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Laurens can't sleep.





	weary passion

It’s the middle of the night and John should be keeping himself still beneath covers to resist the frigid winter, asleep and dreaming of the same war he will wake up to. Instead he spends his time in the barely lit, freezing tent restlessly moving from position to position. Even the cold proves unable to stop his fidgeting. A single candle stays aflame in the darkness, only there for Alexander to continue vigorously writing something John would guess was work if not for Washington informing them there is to be no more work until morning, or rather informing Alexander that the “countless stacks” - as the man with no sense of time nor self-care exaggerated to the general - will be left unattended until morning comes if he wishes to engage in tomorrow’s council for a debate on the goods their rebellion needs versus the delicacies the congress continues to give itself. This will most likely end with their senate once again deciding, “It is a moot point for now. We shall return to it in a few months time,” and proceed to ignore letters, or downright refuse them, and more likely come in nine months rather than the time they have appointed. Alexander seemed disappointed and relieved all at once - even he can tire from the repetitive writings and questions they must complete daily - but John knows the disappointment overshadows the relief. If Alexander can’t physically fight within their brigade he’ll dish out just as much fight in his letters and essays.

“Your writing is loud,” John can no longer take the silence, choosing to complain rather than focus on the agitation of his body. The complaint is nothing more than bored teasing, as in the near year he’s lodged with Alexander the scratching has become more soothing than anything else. After a moment of nothing but his tireless scrawls from quill to paper, John moves to feign another complaint. “I do hope you know that not every piece of our limited writing supplies is to go to your letters,” with that Alexander ceases writing to turn to John.

“Our limited resources never seem to be a bother when it’s _you_ I write to,” he speaks, a playful tone overlapping his exhaustion.

“Ah, so it _is_ a letter,” is John’s rebuttal. “Are you writing a woman perhaps? Have your affections been stolen?” If John could see Alexander across the dark room he has no doubt he would see eyes rolling at the joking theatrics.

“Laurens, don’t be ridiculous,” Alexander begins to turn back toward his desk just as John succeeds in an attempt to disentangle his legs from his damned bedsheets. “We haven't even _seen_ a lady in months,” John finally gets to his feet, already walking toward the barely visible desk, covered by too many pieces of essays, letters, and few poems Alexander rightly keeps to himself; even fewer the ones John has been given the right to see.

“That’s not to say you hadn’t a woman before,” he says in a falsely dramatic tone. “Perhaps I waste my time with a man whose heart is already stolen!” The thought brings him to the wife he abandoned in London, but is quickly replaced with the knowledge that she never once owned his heart. With his arms against Alexander’s back, fitting himself between ever-tense shoulder blades, he feels the response as a huff of laughter.

“You speak as if you are nothing to me but a passing fad,” Alexander mocks offense, leaning back to accommodate for the space still between them.

“You say this now,” teases John. “But the moment a beautiful dame passes you by I will be forgotten,” though he means it for jest, there is still the fear that that is exactly how their life will turn out. What they have being viewed as nothing more than men desperate for affection with lack of a woman at their side.

“Please,” Alexander begins, pulling John from concern for their future. “That would imply there is someone as beautiful as you,” rather than feel embarrassment for the blush covering his face, he brings his grin and flush to Alexander’s neck, who seems pleased with the heat amidst the wintry temperature. Minutes pass before John gives a small sigh at ruining the tranquil embrace, then raises himself from their warmth. The noise of indignance that comes from Alexander humors John, but he shares the loss of heat that is replaced with the winter’s shiver.

“Unless your letter is a matter of life or death- scratch that, unless your letter is five words from being complete, follow me to bed,” before he can take the first step toward his - truly their - bed he is stopped by a hand lacing its fingers through his.

“I am tired, and though you know I have a knack for finding passion even in my weariest of states-”

“You have, truly, a one-track mind,” laughs John as he tightens the link of their hands. “I’m asking nothing more than sleep, my dear. I seem unable to rest on my own, but with you I believe I could do anything.”

“Such a lovely line, wasted on something as small as sleep,” but even as Alexander criticizes the term he brings their joined hands toward him and lays a kiss upon John’s knuckles. When he moves away to look up, the flickering candle puts a shine in Alexander’s already radiant eyes that are joined by a beaming smile. The sight John can honestly claim to have seen over one-hundred times still leaves him practically breathless. “I am thankful that it is winter, as even in the heat of summer I would be powerless to deny you,” as Alexander speaks he takes no time to stand. They release their interlocked hands, but only for John to take the face of that whom he esteems as his fellow soldier and cherishes as his beloved, and Alexander to grip his side as they wordlessly find themselves matched, lips parted and against the others’.

Though he is lovingly teased for it, John swears that every emotion Alexander feels is matched with a specific taste. Beneath the haze of love - _it tastes of sweets_ \- and lust - _it tastes of ale, though superior to anything I’ve been granted_ \- there lies a plethora of flavors that give away feeling. Tonight underneath the sweets he finds what he already knew: the tang of oranges, too bitter to be happiness and too sweet to be anger; exhaustion.

The weary Alexander feels shows in the unhurried movements of their kiss, though the affection they convey is no different than a hurried collide of their bodies or the whispers of sweet nothings in the hours the rest of their camp spends asleep. The way John revels in the intoxication of his partner’s addictive mouth is the same as well. Against John’s lips Alexander speaks in a murmur, “There are very few who fit together perfectly in this world, my Laurens,” he pulls away completely, but the taste of sweets lingers heavily. Even with his heart on his sleeve, Alexander rarely allows his vulnerability to shine through, but John is fortunate enough to see him and his heart at one hundred percent. There is no defense in his gaze - eyes gleaming with undisguised adoration - as he says, “And for you and I, that is each other,” a final kiss - rougher but filled with more heat than collision - is shared before John leads Alexander by the hand toward their cot.

The width of their bed, much too small for two bodies to lay, seems irritating for most, but it keeps them close in the night. Though John knows had their bed been fit for a king Alexander would still cling as close to him as possible, it is still a comfort that their bodies must intertwine to keep fixed onto the cot. There is nothing but their new-found heat and thumping hearts until Alexander takes John from his near-slumber to speak.

“You spoke the truth,” comes his whisper. Though the breath against John’s neck is more than a little distracting, the words are clear in his ear.

“Specifize, my dear,” he mutters into the dark.

“That with each other, we may accomplish anything,” with a content sigh from John, Alexander pulls them even closer to each other than before. Perhaps they are too tight, but neither can find it in themselves to complain.

“You aren’t allowed to make remarks like that when I can’t kiss you,” John mirrors his feigned complaining from before. A short, breathy laugh is felt and heard from Alexander.

“Repay my sentiments in the morning, my dear Laurens,” he murmurs. “For now, rest,” and with a final squeeze from Alexander and the now barely-noticable cold, John allows himself sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> The time and details have no historical accuracy. I just wanted gay shit.


End file.
